


ambiguous picture postcards

by emordnilap (sleepingsapphic)



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Gen, in which im not that bad of a writer but im too lazy to make more, this is sort of a Sad but like.. happySad?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 15:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9390518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepingsapphic/pseuds/emordnilap
Summary: “I― keep forgetting what he looks like,” Jason admits. And he’s learned not to comment when adults show more feeling than they like to let on, but he hates the way Marvin’s pity flashes across his face, the same way his mother or Mendel would look at him right after Whizzer died.“Me too, kiddo,” Marvin says, hoarse.Maybe Jason is mistaking pity for empathy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact i listened to the falsettos revival album like 3 weeks (???) ago and i haven't listened to anything since
> 
> also for context i sorta hc jason as having an almost perfect memory which makes the first bit more coherent
> 
> title comes from howl by allen ginsberg

Jason grows up, but he doesn’t grow old. He thinks he and Whizzer were best friends. And best friends shouldn’t―wouldn’t―forget each other. So he keeps Whizzer locked in his memory, next to his multiplication tables and his Torah portions, coming out when Jason can’t remember details that he should.

He thinks, _What was Whizzer’s favorite poetry verse?_

(and Whizzer’s voice recites with a dreamlike glaze, _'Who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went leaving no broken hearts._ And a flash of a grin, a tousle through Jason’s hair, and he continues, _Too old for your time. Hell, a bit old for my time, too. But maybe when you're older you can read the whole thing. Tell me what you think._ )

He thinks, _What was Whizzer’s ice cream order?_

(and he remembers a sunny Saturday and Whizzer’s three scoops of mint chocolate chip and one vanilla melting beside Jason’s plain chocolate scoop. _Live a little, kiddo,_ Whizzer says, and Jason had grinned up at him and put a little cherry on top.)

He thinks, _What color were Whizzer’s eyes?_

(he panics.)

The next time Jason is at his father’s house, 15 and not quite old enough to drive himself, he stops in the doorway of the master bedroom. A little beyond is where his own bedroom is, and Marvin looks up from the desk when Jason’s footsteps don’t recede into his postered cave like they normally do. “Something wrong, Jason?”

“No, I’m fine, but,” Jason looks down, scuffs at the carpet. “I was just wondering if you had any photos of Whizzer?”

He looks up in time to see a part of his dad closing off, the part that always shuts off when Whizzer is mentioned. It leaves a lump in Jason’s throat too big to swallow down all at once, and he looks at his sneakers again until Marvin clears his throat. “Some of them. His family wouldn’t―well, you don’t need to hear all that.” Jason knows very vaguely what he’s talking about; it was another fight among many that happened beyond his headphones, during the period where he tried to drown the world out with David Bowie and Journey. “Why do you ask?”

“I― keep forgetting what he looks like,” Jason admits. And he’s learned not to comment when adults show more feeling than they like to let on, but he hates the way Marvin’s pity flashes across his face, the same way his mother or Mendel would look at him right after Whizzer died.

“Me too, kiddo,” Marvin says, hoarse.

Maybe Jason is mistaking pity for empathy.

Marvin clears his throat again, looks away to the nightstand next to the bed. “I have the box in here, I think,” he says loudly, and busies himself with getting the stuck drawer to open while Jason stares at his sneakers again. “Here it is,” Marvin says, a minute later, withdrawing a shoebox and a small book from the drawer.

Jason looks at the box, too small and unassuming in Marvin’s hands. It doesn’t look like it should fit all they have of Whizzer. “Are they in color?” he asks.

“Most of them are.” His dad sets the box on the bed, pats the spot next to him in invitation. Jason drops his bag by the door and walks over to the bed, but he doesn’t sit. “Most of the photos are from his friends, a couple from Charlotte and Cordelia, I think. Three are from when he was a kid― had to fight like hell for those.” Marvin’s smile is dry and doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The box stays closed.

“Can I―could I open it?” Jason asks. Marvin nods and hands the shoebox over. Jason pretends not to notice the stray tear on his dad’s face and sits down on the bed.

He opens the box.

The first picture is comical. Whizzer looks impossibly young, with three strangers all wearing party hats and ridiculous clothing. _New Years, '71_ , reads the caption. “Do you know these people?” he asks.

Marvin winces. “Only vaguely. I think her name is Alison,” pointing to a woman on the right of the photo, “ and the man next to her is Gary. He’s the one who gave me the picture.” His father doesn’t seem inclined to say more, so Jason goes to the next.

This one is even older, a skinny, teenaged Whizzer grinning next to two freckled girls. They must be related, but besides their grins, Jason can’t find anything that connects the three. Whizzer looks as old as Jason is now. _The beach, '66,_ says this one.

“Those are his cousins. I’m afraid I don’t know their names,” Marvin says.

“Why didn’t we know his family?” Jason asks.

“They, ah, they cut off contact with him when he came out.” Marvin’s face twists sideways into a half sneer, half frown. “He never really talked about it. Those photos are from his aunt, the only semi decent person in his family. And even then it was a struggle getting them.”

Suddenly, Jason’s interest in the photos drops. He doesn’t want to see a story laid out like an open book when Whizzer clearly took so many pains to hide it. He stares at the pasty kid squinting into the camera, already halfway through his life, and drops the photo back in the box.

He just wants to remember. That’s all. He doesn’t need to know every part of Whizzer’s life for closure to be around the corner.

He digs through the box again. There are only about 20 photos, total, and he skims through them all until he finds something.

It’s a photo from when Marvin was with Whizzer, with more vibrant colors than the rest. Marvin and Whizzer sit under a tree in Central Park. Marvin’s head is tilted away from Whizzer, and Whizzer’s head is thrown back in laughter at something off camera, but for the most part, they look like they’re in their own little world. Whizzer looks stronger than he had been during those last few weeks in the hospital.

The caption is only, _1981_.

“Charlotte took that one,” Marvin says softly over his shoulder. “When we got it developed she said it was the only one that was worth the price.”

It’s how he deserves to be remembered, Jason thinks.

“Can I keep it?” Jason asks. His hands might be shaking the photo. He grips the edges a little too hard.

“Yeah,” Marvin says. “Yeah, buddy, you can keep it.” Jason nods an okay and gets up, rough and a little too choked up to speak. Before he can stand, however, his dad catches his arm. “I almost forgot. Uh, here.” It takes him a moment to realize Marvin is holding something out to him. “He―Whizzer wanted you to have it. I figure you’re old enough.” Marvin’s smile turns wry, and finally meets his eyes. “Don’t let your mother see it.”

Jason looks down at the small paperback in his dad’s hands. Howl and Other Poems, the title reads, by Allen Ginsberg. It’s old and battered like it’s been read thousands of times, and he takes the book gingerly, afraid it might fall apart in his hands. “‘Who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,’” he murmurs.

“Dammit, I knew he read it to you at some point,” Marvin says, but he’s smiling. “At least it’s one of the cleaner parts.”

Jason flips open the cover, afraid of what might be there, but there’s only Whizzer printed in blocky letters, no To Jason or To Whizzer that might make him cry in front of Marvin. He isn’t sure if the sigh that escapes his lips is relief or disappointment. He looks up at his father. “Thanks, Dad.”

Marvin’s smile gets a little wider. “No problem.”

Jason clutches the book and the photo to his chest and walks toward the door, but he still feels shaky enough that he pauses in the doorway. “Dad,” he asks without turning, “what color were his eyes?”

He hears Marvin exhale sharply. “Brown,” he says after a moment. “His eyes were brown.”

Jason closes his eyes, tries to imagine Whizzer, and retreats to his room. Best friends wouldn’t forget each other, but maybe they wouldn’t memorize them, either.

That’s probably alright.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on twitter (@sapphicnymphs) or tumblr (@winstonbrown)!!


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